We Light the Night

This past weekend, my family and friends participated in “Light the Night,” a walk hosted by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. My neighbor, who lost his wife to lymphoma, told me about it after he heard about my diagnosis. He and his daughters do the walk every year in honor of his wife, and he recommended that we check it out as a family. And I’m so glad we did.

The grounds were small and very family friendly, and there were people of all ages bundled up and ready for the walk. Volunteers were there to pass out lanterns of diffferent colors. Gold lanterns were carried by family and friends who were walking in memory of loved ones lost to cancer, white lanterns were carried by patients and survivors, and red lanterns were carried by those who walked in support. There was a band playing to try to keep spirits up and lively, but the overall vibe was a mixed bag of excitement and somberness. I didn’t know what to expect coming into the walk, and I was feeling all sorts of mixed emotions as well. Walks and races I’ve done in the past have been to commemorate friends and family that have lost the battle, and here I was doing the walk to celebrate me and my dad, and we’re both still alive. I felt proud and selfish at the same time. I wanted to scream and shout that I am a survivor, but kept it to a humble smile, especially when seeing so many other people who couldn’t say the same for their loved ones.

Before the opening ceremony began, all patients and survivors were called up to the stage for a group picture. I walked up there, enthusiastically carrying the white lantern I worked so hard to earn, eagerly joining the others that had similar journeys. I stood next to a woman wearing a mask, who told me she was still in the thick of the treatments. I saw two little girls also carrying the white lanterns that needed a bit of a nudge from their parents to join the adults for the picture. I looked out into the small crowd who were taking pictures of their family members, Jamie included. Then I met eyes with one of the moms of the little girls, and behind her camera her face streamed with tears. I saw the dad of the other little girl who was giving his daughter an encouraging thumbs up that she’s doing great. I lost it. I cried for the parents, who I’m sure were scared to death of losing their kids. I cried for my kids, who, just a year ago, were probably scared they’d never see me again. I looked over at them, and they were smiling and waving at me, looking slightly confused as to why I was crying. Jamie gave me a look that said we’re okay now, and it calmed me down. The woman next to me put her arm around me and said, “Oh no, no tears! You’ll be okay!” Here was this woman who was currently undergoing chemo, struggling with the last round she received, and comforting me, and I’m the one in good health. Her strength and positivity were unreal. I felt a little silly for not being able to stand tall for others, while this woman was currently fighting cancer and lifting others up around her. It felt ironic. Then the man behind us put his arm around us and said, “I’ve been a survivor for 25 years. You both have a lot more life to live.” It was at that point that I felt like time stopped for a minute, and I was looking at the me from last year, my current self, and my future self. It was a powerful moment.

I snapped out of it as the final pictures were being taken (so glad I had ugly cry face going for the cameras). I saw my siblings, nieces and nephews, and friends slowly gathering together as night was falling. As the opening ceremony commenced and speakers began sharing their stories, I heard my sister say, “Aww shit, it’s about to get sad.” And she was right. Stories of hope and loss were shared, and the littles that I saw earlier in the group picture were up on stage too. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, as people remembered those they lost to cancer, as well as those who fought with everything they had to be there today. The speaker called for lanterns to be lit, one color at a time, and before I knew it, the sight around us was a beautiful flood of red, gold, and white lights amidst the dark sky. It was beautiful and painful.

I was overwhelmed and I think Jamie could tell. As the walk started, he put his arm around me and led me to start walking with everyone else. The night got cold, and I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the dropping temperature or if it was adrenaline flowing through me. Once our big group of 35 was on the walking path, the mood lightened up. It was impossible to keep the whole group together, as there were adults, big kids, and little kids within our group, but it just felt good to know everyone was there experiencing this. One of my friends brought a portable speaker with him, and soon we were walking to party music. It was a good reminder that it was a celebratory walk for us too. The kids were loving it, running through the mud and grass in the darkness. I thought to myself that kids’ resilience and innocence during tough times make them the best fighters of all. I heard one of the littles ask, “Are we almost done?” And my brother said, “Do you see those lanterns all the way up there? That’s how far the path goes. We still have a way to go.” I looked far along the path ahead and turned behind me to look at the distance we already walked, and saw the whole path lit up with the various colored lanterns. It basically summed up my year. It was dark, but family and friends lit the way. And we’ve come this far now, but have a lot more walking to do. But the path isn’t as dark as it initially seemed; the way is illuminated by those that have experienced this and have moved on and continue to live life. What often felt lonely suddenly felt warm and safe.

When we reached the end of the path, we took a few more group pictures, gave warm goodbye and thank you hugs, and went our separate ways. The Newton 4 went out for dinner and talked about how we all felt. The kids said they had fun and wanted to do it every year, which made me so happy. Evan said, “I’m a cancer survivor! Mommy, you died from cancer but then you came back to life.” While that is not true at all, two things stuck to me. For one thing, I like how he gave me the super power of resurrection. And secondly, while Jamie and the kids are not cancer survivors by definition, they absolutely survived an ordeal of a lifetime right beside me, and we all came out on top. At the end of the night, Reese asked if she could hold my white survivor lantern. I told her to turn on the light. I said, “Do you feel that power? That’s the power of a survivor. Don’t forget it.”

As I heard the cheesy “Survivor” song by Destiny’s Child in the back of my mind, my evening ended with the satisfaction of knowing that my family and friends have started a new yearly tradition that celebrates life, loss, and the strength to move on. That’s a pretty solid Sunday in the books.